Page 92 of The Wrong Man

We are bantering. Flirting. Having an actual conversation while I sit in his lap with swollen lips and a racing heart. This is surreal. This is insane. This is so far outside the bounds of my seduction plan that I have no idea what to do next.

I should climb off him. Put some distance between us. Return to my designated spot on the sofa and pretend this never happened.

Instead, I lean forward and kiss him again.

It is softer this time. Slower. Less desperate and more deliberate. I explore the shape of his mouth with careful attention, cataloguing every detail. The way his breath catches when I trace my tongue along his lower lip. The small sound he makes when I run my fingers through his hair. The way his hands flex on my waist like he is fighting the urge to pull me closer.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, my entire body is tingling.

“That was also impulsive,” I admit.

“I noticed.”

“I don’t know what I am doing.”

“Neither do I.”

It should not be comforting, hearing that. He is supposed to be the one in control, the one with all the power in this dynamic. But somehow, knowing that he is just as lost as I am makes this feel less terrifying.

We are both adrift in unfamiliar waters. We are both making it up as we go along.

Dante shifts beneath me, and I become suddenly, viscerally aware of just how close we are. Every inch of our bodies pressed together. The heat building between us. The undeniable evidence of how much he enjoyed that kiss pressing against my thigh.

My face catches fire.

“I should, um.” I gesture vaguely. “I should probably...”

“Yes.” His voice is strained. “That would probably be wise.”

I climb off his lap with as much dignity as I can muster, which is not very much at all. My legs feel shaky, my lips feel swollen, and there is a persistent warmth in my belly that has nothing to do with whiskey.

We sit side by side on the sofa, a careful few inches between us now. On the screen, credits are rolling. The film is over. I have no idea how it ended.

“So,” I say.

“So,” he agrees.

Silence stretches between us, but it is not uncomfortable. It is charged, electric, full of everything we just did and everything we very deliberately stopped ourselves from doing.

My seduction plan has officially gone off the rails. Whatever this is, it is not strategic. It is not calculated. It is not a means to an end.

It is something else entirely. Something I don’t know how to name.

And I have absolutely no idea what happens next.

Chapter twenty-six

Dylan

Iscramble to my feet. Because sitting on the sofa, next to Dante, after that kiss, is totally and utterly unbearable.

I turn around to face him. I need to say something, some excuse about needing to go to bed because I’m suddenly tired or I have a headache. Anything that allows me to run away.

But as I look down at him, I realize I have a far more pressing problem. Because my crotch is now level with his face.

This is terrible because that kiss was incredible, and I’m human. And these borrowed trousers are light gray sweatpants.

My hands fly forward in a move I haven’t needed since I was a teenager but apparently still retain the muscle memory for.